


A Queer Revenge

by Aerosheep



Category: Plein Soleil / Purple Noon (1960), Ripley Series - Patricia Highsmith
Genre: Because Alain Delon, Bondage, I'd like to go on record and say that Plein Soleil is the best Ripley adaption, M/M, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-14 21:55:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28677774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aerosheep/pseuds/Aerosheep
Summary: With his girlfriend Marge having left their boat, Philippe is left alone with the mysterious and attractive Tom Ripley.Not as corny as it sounds I promise
Relationships: Philippe Greenleaf/Marge Duval, Tom Ripley/Philippe Greenleaf
Comments: 2
Kudos: 2





	1. Alien

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Plein Soleil/Purple Noon or The Ripley Series

Marge had left in a fragile storm of fury, looking past her cruel boyfriend and out onto the ocean, to where her papers must have deteriorated into a million soggy flecks of paper by now.

Philippe shrugged once his girlfriend had wandered out of sight, unconcerned, and undoubting that she would return to him in no more than a few days.

He had, of course, begged Marge not to leave the boat, clutching at her doll-like hands, and spinning out sweet tales of how much he loved her, and how much he was sorry etc. But she had left all the same.

And now, suddenly, he was alone on the boat with Tom Ripley. 

Tom, who had observed the couple with an unsettling attentiveness. 

He was a rat, Philippe had decided, hoovering up the scraps of their lavish lifestyle, sniffing around the edges of their perfect relationship. And Philippe had watched him chew through the wires that had tied himself and Marge together. 

He had thought, that Tom Ripley would make an entertaining pet. He soon found out that his long lost ‘friend’, was nothing but a pest.

Tom had smiled sickly sweet at Marge, had flashed her a knowing look when Philippe had made a joke at his expense. Marge would frown sincerely and scold him, but then Tom would catch her eye, and she returned his look with a shy half-smile. 

Philippe had thought that maybe Tom would go after Marge when she left the boat. Then again, it was Ripley who had planted that other girl’s earring in Philippe’s jacket pocket. 

He didn’t know if he was relieved or not, that Tom had stayed.

He guessed that he was first choice after all.

It had amused him at first. Ripley tagged after him like an adopted puppy, laughed at his jokes, got drunk with him, showed off his impressions for Philippe’s entertainment…

And then there was the mirror. 

Who did he think he was, playing dress up in Philippe’s belongings like some sad, classless nobody who went to designer shops just to try on the expensive clothes?

And kissing his own reflection. The sick fuck. 

It was probably the only action he could get, a man with that sort of taste.

Except he knew that couldn’t be true. Such young men like Ripley, those who rejected normality and spat in the face of society, they stuck together didn’t they? Why had this leech clung to him then?

In all honesty, Philippe couldn’t remember Tom. But then the man had dredged up some boorish (probably made up) childhood tale from when they were 15. Adoring eyes had peered up up at him, intense, and too sincere. 

‘I’d have died for you’, Tom had said. He’d felt disgusted in that moment. And yet now, he wondered, to die yourself, and then…. Impossible. He didn’t want to think about it.

Now that Marge had gone, his jealously no longer blindsided him. Tom Ripley had not followed his girlfriend. Tom Ripley had been poking through his bank statements. 

He supposed he had not helped his anxiety by confronting the stranger on his boat:  
‘You took my bank statements’  
‘Exactly.’  
‘Kill me and you’re rich.’  
‘I can’t hide it.’

Tom had grinned at him then like they were sharing a private joke, but the truth of the words held their ground. If Tom Ripley were to kill him, who would know?

This, and the predatory anticipation in Tom’s eyes, his easy forgiveness of Philippe’s prank, his crafty plan to rid the boat of Marge, the suddenness of their plastic friendship…he felt that he ought to be more scared than he currently was.

And yet, he could never quite solidify his impression of Tom Ripley. The man was like a spirit, suddenly appearing in Philippe’s life as though he’d been there all this time. But was that permanent glint in his eyes mere playfulness, or was this creature truly dangerous?

He had almost urged the man, ‘take your revenge!’... It would have been better than the unknown. An unpaid debt festered in the air like the smell of rotten flesh, whilst time kept ticking away on how long it would be left hanging there.

He had never been so acutely aware of another man’s good looks before. He had thought, again, that it was his possessiveness over Marge which had made him uncomfortable, hyper-aware.

But, Ripley’s arresting features hadn’t exactly diminished since then. The man was too beautiful, so much so that it became almost grotesque. If a sculptor whittled and toiled his whole life away, to depict the perfect Adonis, the statue would not come close to Tom Ripley. He was inhuman, he was art, he belonged in one of Marge’s books…

Then he remembered the odd, 2D, spherical-faced figures of Fra Angelico, and reconsidered. No, they were far too humanly ugly.

He felt that he was looking at an alien. 

An alien that was scared of water, and couldn’t swim.

He should throw Tom Ripley off the side of his boat.


	2. Something so Strange

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Defo nsfw

It was the evening of the night Marge left. The water was swishing and humping at the sides of the boat. The cabin was lit only by the soft, golden glow of the setting sun.

It had been Philippe’s jibing comment which had started it; he had poked fun at Tom’s inability to grasp the mechanisms of the sails. He had watched gleefully as Tom hopped clumsy about the boat, pulling at all the wrong ropes in all the wrong directions.

‘Maybe you’re not strong enough’, he had jested. Tom had smiled a pixie’s smile.  
‘I’m stronger than you.’

An assertion so cocksure, that Philippe could not resist rising to the bait. And it most certainly was bait. Tom, who was always scheming, wound him up as easily as a fishing line.

Their playful wrestling carried them down into the cabin. Their hands on the other’s shoulders, pushing and shoving to gain the upper hand. Philippe had been holding back for the added satisfaction, of when he inevitably, and easily, overpowered Ripley. 

He slammed the other man onto his narrow bed, nearly walking into the ladder on the way.

He sat firmly upon Tom’s hips and pinned his wrists by his head.  
‘Who did you say was the strongest?’, he taunted.

But Ripley’s eyes only twinkled. Infuriatingly, he was completely nonplussed. 

They stayed there, silently, until Philippe got bored and shifted off Tom’s body.

And then Ripley struck like a viper. 

He bolted upright, and snatched Philippe’s wrists between his hands as he was turning to walk away. Philippe twisted around, outraged. But it was too late.

This time Philippe was pushed down and sat upon, uselessly thrashing, whilst Tom bound his wrists together with a coarse rope (when had he retrieved that?!), and tied Philippe’s wrists to the bed boards. 

Philippe was stumped. He said as much. 

Tom laughed like a child on a swing set, before something venomous trickled into the sound, and it became almost wicked.

And then the laughter stopped abruptly. Philippe felt true fear slice through him. But then Tom simply grinned, and said goodnight. 

Goodnight? Philippe gaped. The man had to be joking; it was still the evening. And he was still tied up! He growled angrily, glaring at Tom’s back, before protesting loudly, demanding his release, spitting out threats left, right and centre.

To his horror, Tom seemed only to bask in Philippe’s fury.

Philippe wondered just what he had let wander onto his boat. 

The menace was now stretching idly, cracking out the kinks in his back and neck, tanned body lit up like a candle by the sun’s soft warmth. For a few moments, Philippe forgot himself and his plight, and simply stared at the body in front of him.

Straightening up, Tom raised an eyebrow pointedly, glancing southward at Philippe’s groin.

His dick was half-hard, Philippe realised, gobsmacked that this day continued to get worse. And then his anger returned. This was another of Tom’s schemes. He had been fooled into humiliating himself.

He made to refute his own erection, as if it was a mirage. ‘You know how they can spring up randomly’, he had tried. 

Tom Ripley payed him no heed. 

Instead, he sat down on the opposite bed, legs spread, suggestively, and pulled his shirt off. 

Philippe blanched. This was not happening, was it? He wasn’t going to be raped, was he?

But Tom made no move towards him. Rather, he made a move towards himself, for his right hand slipped down past the waistband of his trousers, and into his pants.

He began to stroke slowly, looking almost as if he were asleep. He had shifted back on his bed to lean against the wall: a mirrored image of Philippe. 

Ripley bit his lower lip enticingly, eyes glittering with mirth, and then moaned softly.

Philippe could feel himself becoming increasingly hard. When had his protests ceased? When had he suddenly accepted what was happening? He felt himself to be under a spell.

Tom’s other hand made a move to slide his trousers down.

Philippe waited, fear dispelled, with baited breath and a racing heart, even though yesterday he had seen Tom Ripley perfectly well in just his swimming shorts, and had felt nothing. As the material did slip off slowly, Tom’s pants came down with them, and he heard himself moan quietly.

Tom gave a breathy laugh.

His cock was as pristine and faultless as the rest of him. 

Philippe had seen cocks before, in the changing rooms of college. He had been able to laugh at them then, thinking them ridiculous and unsightly. He felt enamoured with Tom Ripley’s.

He wanted to reach out and touch it himself, to press it up against his own member. How good it would feel, the friction and the heat, rubbing against each other.

Ripley didn’t stroke himself for too long. He did, however, lift that hand up to his mouth, to suck on his fingers languidly.

Philippe’s eyes widened, and his groin ached. He longed for that mouth to be wrapped around his prick. He could only pant as Tom’s lips turned shiny with spit. 

He begged Tom out loud for mercy, but the man ignored him completely. Philippe felt that this was Tom’s chosen revenge, he would be tortured with his lust, which Tom himself had ignited in him seemingly on a whim. With a fierce throb of his groin and a drying mouth, Philippe almost wished he’d been sun-burnt instead.

Tom lowered his fingers, skirting past his dick, and circled his arsehole. Philippe choked on his breath.

He could only watch as Tom eased his saliva coated fingers inside of himself, and flopped backwards, knees bent, giving Philippe a perfect view his anus.

It was obscene, he’d never been so aroused, so untouched, so impatient for anyone in his life.

Tom began to moan in earnest as his fingers found ‘that’ spot inside himself. Philippe had never dared to try that on himself, and he baulked again at what a creature Tom was. 

Rather muddily, he wondered if Tom had done this before: lain on his back like this for another man. He looked too at ease and experienced to have not done. Jealously flooded him, like it had done on Marge’s behalf. Marge…, he thought, forgive me. 

Tom’s hips were thrusting sensuously, not jerky and sporadic like his own were, Philippe realised shamefully, but elegantly, sort of femininely. Graceful like the smoothed backs of dolphins, which surfaced from the water exquisitely before dipping back under. 

Ripley’s panting grew more intense and erotic, his own grew ragged and wheezing. Philippe could tell Tom was close, and despaired; it was clear that Tom was not going to untie him. Tom would cum, and Philippe would only be able to watch.

He pulled ruthlessly at his bonds, how could a man so incompetent around boats tie knots so well?

He wanted nothing more than to bury himself firmly inside that clenching hole, to pin down Ripley’s torso with his own, and drive them both to blissful completion.

Tom’s thighs clenched, and he moaned lengthily. Cum span out of his cock in streaming ribbons, to paint prettily across his stomach. 

Philippe’s own cock convulsed angrily, as it was denied its own release, pulsing like it had a heart of its own. He kicked his legs, aggravated, feeling like a man deprived of water, but looking like a child denied of dessert. 

Tom sat up, hair ruffled and wild, eyes flaring gleefully and brimmed with satisfaction.

He stared at Philippe, looking pleased at the destruction he’d caused over on the other bed.

Philippe begged and begged for mercy, letting all inhibitions go as he twisted and writhed on his bed. His wrists burned, but they were nothing compared to the scorching fires in his groin.

Tom Ripley slunk off his bed casually. Philippe hated him. Tom sidled up to Philippe’s bed, and leant in close so that Philippe’s pants ruffled his brown, tousled fringe. He adored him, he had to have him, he would do anything.

Tom leant backwards lazily and Philippe whimpered desperately.  
‘Not so cocky now are you’, Tom smirked.

Philippe grit his teeth, sure now that it was the devil who was in front of him. 

Tom reached a foot out, and pushed hard with his heel.

Philippe yelped. 

It was excruciating pleasure, sickly sweet pain.

He came with such a force that his body felt slammed back as if hit by a tidal wave.

He felt his cock jerking manically, his hands tearing into each other with his fingernails, and his legs squirming like the tentacles of a caught octopus.

Tom’s foot kept pressing, scrunching his toes around his softening, sensitive cock-head. Philippe sobbed and felt the tears pour down his face, and even the white hot aftershocks of his orgasm weren't enough to dampen the burning embarrassment of crying. The two fires only merged and enflamed his nerves all the more violently.

Like the tinkling of wind chimes, Philippe thought he heard Tom’s laughter again, mockingly faint, swimming in the air around him like a hoard of storm flies.

His sobbing calmed down, and he opened bleary eyes to see Tom Ripley, leafing through his bank statements again.

All the fight had been drained from him, however, and he felt only the gooey richness of a hot, chocolate fondant, pouring through his body.

He would get his own back, he was sure, in the morning maybe. What was he good at? Cards, he was good at cards, they would play cards, and he would beat Tom, and then as a prize he would…

He didn’t know, he would decide later. He was too tired now, too tired for dreams even.

He glanced one more time at the bewitching features of Tom Ripley, before sinking into the darkness of sleep.


End file.
